Time to Give Up.

When I was a kid, I used to dream of being an adult. I used to look forward to the days when I’d have freedom to come and go as I wished, when I could do whatever I wanted, when I could be my own person. When I was a teenager, I used to dream of being an adult, when I’d finally have my life figured out, when I’d have worked through my issues and I’d have a speck of happiness. Today, I’m an adult, and I no longer have dreams.

The freedom I always dreamed of was taken away from me by this illness that takes over me, that controls my every move and thought, even when I think the moves and thoughts are my own. Sometimes, I don’t even realize how I’m being moved by this, until I see how erratically I’m acting or how uncontrollably my thoughts are racing. It’s then that I realize that I can no longer make my own, free decisions. Everything I do, is, somehow, influenced by this thing that has become a huge part of me.

The life I wanted to have figured out never really happened. Of course, I can never get through with any plans, because I have become an insecure, weak person, with no will power to go on. Of course, I’ll never try hard enough for anything I really want, because I’m terrified of failing and just proving by actual facts how much of a worthless piece of shit I actually am. I’d rather fool myself by not trying and give up half way through so I don’t have to deal with failure and rejection.

And the speck of happiness I wished for? I don’t even remember what it is like, to be happy. Okay days are the best I hope for right now, and they’re mostly so rare. It’s been literally fifteen years I haven’t been happy, and I see no light ahead of me for that happening any time soon. All I feel is hopelessness, rage, resent.

I feel hopeless every time I feel like I do now, like my meds are stopping working. It’s what? The 8th time? The 10th? The 15th? I don’t even know anymore which time it is, but it doesn’t really matter. It happens over and over and over again. And all it does to me is prove that this will never end. The instability will never end, the pain will never end. I’ve tried DOZENS of meds that will eventually fail me. I’ve tried therapy, I’ve tried changing major, moving half a world away, I’ve tried EVERYTHING. Nothing. Ever. Works. This will never end. How can I feel anything but hopeless?

I feel rage and resent that no one notices. No one. Not my family, not my friends, not my boyfriend. I walk among them every day. To some of them, I talk about dying and suicide. Heck, last week, I wrote this long awareness post for Suicide Prevention Day and posted for everyone to see, talking about suicide and its facts and how you should pay attention to people around you. But no. They don’t see. They couldn’t see a cry for help if one bit them in the ass. Yet, when I kill myself, I bet I’l get a bunch of shocked Facebook posts on my Wall, “Why did you do this? You were always so happy and making people laugh.” I wish I would be around to see the repercussions of it.

I wish I knew what makes me so worthless and invisible to people, why is it that no one can spare some time, or no one can get into it deep enough to deal. I wish I knew why I’m not worth it, people’s time, people’s love, people’s care. I tried, you know? I’ve always been such a good friend. Everyone talks to me about everything, and everyone leans on me. But when I need someone, there is never anyone around. I just… I can’t.

I can’t do this anymore. I’m not strong enough. I’ve spent most of my life hurting. I’ve spent my childhood, my teenage years and half of my twenties. HASN’T IT BEEN ENOUGH? Can’t it just go away? Why do I need to keep struggling to go through every day? Why does this have to be my life?

I know, no one said it would be easy. But I didn’t sign up for this. I’m tired. I’m done.

Sad thing is, there’s so many things I want to do. So many things I want to say. So many things I want to be. But I can’t. I need to go.

It’s time to give up. It’s time to throw in the towel. I’ll see you next time.

Not that anyone cares anyway, no one reads this.

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Who are the real “High-Risk” kids?

Do you know there is such a thing as “high-risk” children when it comes to the risk of being sexually abused? Any idea of who they are? I’ll give you a moment to think about it…

Any idea yet?

They’re usually children from lower income families, uneducated parents, often single parent family. Wait before you think I’m generalizing it. I’m not saying single parents of low income and little education can’t take good care of their children or protect them from abuse. But there are actually studies that suggest children from those environments are more likely to go through some sort of sexual abuse.

That’s what I have a problem with. Everyone in the school system, social working system, medical system or whatever are warned of those kinds of high-risk children. My professor of Child Development Psychology talked about these high-risk children. That’s great for them. Even though they’re more likely to be hurt somehow, there are people looking out for them, in and our the school system. They’re also more likely to be protected from it.

The problem is, these “high-risk” children are only called that because they’re the ones whose abuse are actually exposed. The so-called “normal” families, the ones who have higher incomes, educated parents are much better at living concealed, fabricated lives, filled with lives, in which sexual abuse is never exposed when it happens. And their children? They have no one to protect them, because “things like that don’t happen to children like them”

Having PhD parents who make over 100k a year won’t protect children from being sexually abused, and I know that first hand. The problem is the mentality of people who will never look at those children, who have such comfortable home lives and think something so nefarious may be happening to them.

That makes them even more afraid to tell, that makes them even more willing to believe the lies their abuse will tell that no one will ever believe them, because they have known their whole lives that children like them are not raped and tortured and beaten. Other types of kids do. Not them. No one will ever believe them.

So, who’s high-risk? Who’s at risk of not being protected or believed? Who’s at risk of having to keep a secret their whole lives out of shame and doubt and not ever knowing if they’ll be believed? Because “things like that don’t happen to kids like you,” they have been told.

Unless someone changes that, they’ll always be unprotected. And at risk.